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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28464939">Somewhere in my Memory</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/whump_angst_fluff_repeat/pseuds/whump_angst_fluff_repeat'>whump_angst_fluff_repeat</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst and Feels, Canon Divergence - Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Christmas Feels, Gen, I suck at dialogue, Peter Parker Gets a Hug, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Survives the Snap, because that's what he deserves, so call this practice</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-11 00:21:46</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,395</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28464939</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/whump_angst_fluff_repeat/pseuds/whump_angst_fluff_repeat</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Candles in the window<br/>Shadows painting the ceiling<br/>Gazing at the fire glow<br/>Feeling that gingerbread feeling</em>
</p><p> </p><p>The Christmas after the first Snap, Peter visits his treasured memories</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Peter Parker &amp; Tony Stark</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>26</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Somewhere in my Memory</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Yes, I know this is a week late for Christmas, so what?</p><p>Well this idea came to me on Christmas Eve, and so I'm actually proud of myself for writing it and editing and proofreading and finding the time to post in just a week. :) I figured y'all wouldn't mind too much, I'm still not super experienced with writing!</p><p>Also I apologize in advance, I don't know how to write anything but angst.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>Peter giggled as he grabbed an m&amp;m, stuffing it into his mouth with a chubby palm before May turned around, alerted by his laugh.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She raised an eyebrow, hands on her hips and head cocked sternly. “Peter Parker, you did not just steal an m&amp;m from the candy bowl.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Peter shook his head quickly, giggling harder and covering his mouth with his hand as he attempted to chew up the m&amp;m before she could see.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>May’s mouth quirked even as her tone remained firm. “Do I need to tell Uncle Ben that we don’t have enough candy for our gingerbread house now?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“No!” Peter exclaimed, earnest.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Then I suggest you keep your hands where they belong or there won’t be a gumdrop left by the time the gingerbread is out of the oven.” May poked his nose, taking all of the bite out of her stern words.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Peter gave another giggle. “Okay,” he said meekly, before glancing to the oven. “But May, why is there smoke coming out of the oven?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>May said a naughty word and spun around, grabbing a pot holder from the counter as she yanked the oven door open. She batted away some of the smoke and reached in, fumbling the cookie sheet once before sliding it out and setting it atop the stove. Waving away the last bit of smoke, she stared in dismay at her blackened cookies.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Peter watched, mouth open in concern, from his place kneeling atop a kitchen chair with his elbows braced upon the table. “Are they burned?” he asked.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>May looked at him, mouth opening, and then they both turned and looked to the door as it opened, Ben entering with a rustling of plastic grocery bags. He grinned at them as he wrestled his purchases inside. “You didn’t start without me, did you? The line at the store was unbelievably long, I would have been back half an hour ago…” he trailed off, sniffing. “Is that smoke?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“The gingerbread is burned,” Peter announced.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Sorry,” May added with a wince.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Ben only laughed as he dumped his armful of bags on the kitchen floor. Kissing May quickly (Peter covered his eyes when Ben swooped in), he then turned to Peter and said “Well, then, it’s lucky I just so happened to pick up…” he pulled an item out of a bag with a flourish “-fresh baked gingerbread from Martha’s on the way home.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Yay!” Peter jumped to his feet on the chair, throwing his hands up.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Ben,” May said exasperatedly, whacking him with the pot holder even as a small grin appeared. “I’d say I’m offended, but honestly I should have expected a back-up plan from you.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Just because Peter’s been looking forward to this for so long,” Ben replied, leaning in for another kiss.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Peter immediately dropped his head to the table, burying his face in his little palms.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“And because I know you,” Ben said, and Peter peeked up just in time to see their lips meet again.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Ew, ew, ew!” Peter exclaimed, stamping a foot on his chair.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>They broke apart and laughed, though what was so funny, Peter didn’t know.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Can we start our house now?” he asked.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>May scraped her cookies into the trash and Peter helped Ben unpackage the new gingerbread. The walls of their house kept falling in, and only half of the candy that Peter didn’t sneak would stick to the gingerbread. By the time they were done Peter’s hands were sticky, his stomach hurt, and there was more frosting on his face than on the little house. But the walls of their apartment rang with laughter and there were sprinkles in Ben’s hair and there was chocolate on May’s cheek too. They washed their hands and left the table a mess and curled up on the couch to watch the Grinch, Peter squished just in between his aunt and uncle. He jumped up a multitude of times throughout the movie to break off another piece of their crumbling cookie house, stuff it in his mouth, and run back to plop himself onto their laps and watch the Grinch pluck ornaments from each Christmas tree.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Peter gazes around the kitchen, taking in each stained cupboard and spot on the floor. He looks to the oven that had to be replaced four years ago from all of the burning May had done; right at that point when May and Ben’s jobs had been earning enough that they could afford something like that. When once he had been grateful for Ben’s rescue of their blackened gingerbread, now all he longs for is a taste of May’s burnt cookies.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Swallowing thickly, he forces his feet to move into the living room.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They’d had a cheap fake fireplace that Ben would pull out of storage for them to hang their stockings on every year. Peter touches the wall where it stood. He had been confused about how Santa could get through a fake fireplace, but May explained that Santa used doors for the people that didn’t have a chimney, and the fireplace was just for decor.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The fireplace had been fake, but May had always insisted on a real tree. Some years they could only afford a four-footer but on top of a box or two it didn’t look so short. The smell was worth it, especially when Peter got up for school, the winter morning still dark, and the tree would greet him glowing softly in the corner when he padded out of his room. He popped a slice of bread in the toaster and then sat and just watched the lights twinkle, admiring the strange shadows it cast across every surface in the room, until with a </span>
  <em>
    <span>ding!</span>
  </em>
  <span> the toaster startled him out of his stupor.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Ding! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Peter jumps as the chime of the elevator down the hall jolts him back to the present in an odd coincidental replication of his memory.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He shakes his head. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to come here today.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’d just wanted to </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel… </span>
  </em>
  <span>something. Just wanted some little taste of Christmases past.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When he’d had a real family, however messy and patched up it was.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Peter ran home from school that day, grateful for once for his small frame as he darted in between bustling shoppers, indignant exclamations following him down the street from the ones he’d accidentally knocked into.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He made it home in record time and burst through the door, where Ben greeted him with a chuckling grin.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Hey squirt, I’ve never seen you so excited to wash the dishes.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Peter huffed and rolled his eyes. “Uncle </span>
  </em>
  <span>Ben,</span>
  <em>
    <span> we’re getting our Christmas tree today!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“What? How could I have forgotten?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You forget </span>
  </em>
  <span>everything,</span>
  <em>
    <span> cuz you’re </span>
  </em>
  <span>old!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, there was retribution for that comment. It came in the form of the tickle monster.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>At the tree lot, Peter ran ahead of May and Ben, examining every tree carefully and ranking his favorites. He hid behind evergreens and in corners of the lot, jumping out to surprise his aunt and uncle when they came along.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>When the perfect tree had been selected, Peter helped carry it to the car, his hands getting sticky with sap.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>They had a bit of a struggle getting it up the elevator, and the landlord wasn’t happy about the needles. But at last it was standing in the corner of their apartment, screwed into the stand, fresh and bare as a canvas waiting to be decked in Christmas glory.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Ben did the lights and May did the beads and Peter did the star and they all adorned the tree with a wide array of ornaments, antiques from May’s parents and popsicle stick crafts Peter had brought home from school over the years.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Christmas classics played over the radio while they worked, May and Ben trying their best to harmonize as they sang along. They ended up dancing around the room together as Peter rolled his eyes at their embarrassing antics.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>What he wouldn’t give now to see them swaying back and forth to the music, Ben’s arm snug around May’s waist and hers over his shoulder, their other hands clasped tightly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ben releases May for a moment to guide her into a spin, and then she’s back up against him, and they move around the room, nimbly avoiding the open boxes of ornaments.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As the song finishes, Ben dips May low, and May laughs, and he slowly leans in-</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A new song starts up from the carolers down on the street and Peter blinks, and blinks again, gazing around at bare walls and an empty corner.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He shakes his head quickly, moving forward to brush his hand over the bare threads of the old sofa.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The majority of their possessions are still in the apartment, excepting the things of his own that Peter has gradually moved into the compound. Mr. Stark had paid the landlord a good amount to keep the stuff here, after Peter had expressed quietly that he’d prefer it until he felt a little more ready.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Six months later and he’s still not even close.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The faded couch that they’d had from the time Peter moved in still sits in the center of the living room, directly across from the tv on which they had watched so many Christmas movies. Ben’s La-Z-Boy that they’d never gotten rid of sits beside it, the most dust-covered piece in the apartment.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>May’s bookshelves are still standing (and still overflowing), a lamp stands on the end table, pots and pans fill the disorganized kitchen cupboards, and a motley collection of magnets still covers the fridge door.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But the walls are bare. The photographs that used to spread across them, some framed and some just taped haphazardly, have been taken down and put heaven-knows-where.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Maybe Tony thought pictures of Peter’s old life -his parents, May, Ben, even Ned- would be too much. Maybe if he walked in here to every little detail just the same as it had been, as it used to be, maybe it would break him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t know.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But he’s not sure it’s much better to see the apartment in this in-between, halfway state. A hollow shell, once a home, now holding only the dusty echoes of memories. An empty reflection of what once was.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A pale imitation, overcrowded with ghosts.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s beginning to wonder if it was even a good idea in the first place to keep the things here, if Mr. Stark should have just moved everything without his permission. If they should have sold the apartment itself, given it to some broken family trying their best to move on.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s really beginning to wonder if he should have even come here today.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It can’t be healthy to do this.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And yet Peter can’t stop himself from wandering aimlessly into the next room, fingers brushing the walls.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Still unsure if he’s really feeling anything, watching his legs move and thinking these thoughts from somewhere above his body.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The Christmas when he was twelve, Ben took him ice skating in Central Park.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Pre-spider bite, Peter had been scrawny and clumsy; why Ben had thought skating was a good idea, Peter didn’t know. But despite the scrapes and bruises accumulating on every bony joint of his body, despite the cold numbness that pushed ever inward, despite the crowds that barely left room to maneuver around the rink, Peter still remembers it as one of the best days of his life.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Ben held his hands at first, guiding him across the ice, gliding effortlessly backwards while Peter struggled to keep his own feet from slipping right out from under him.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>When Peter’s ankles finally stopped wobbling and he could take his eyes off his feet for a moment or two, Ben turned around, holding just one of Peter’s hands and leading them more quickly around the rink.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Peter remembers the moment the frustration wore off and he realized he was actually enjoying himself. He laughed, and Ben’s face lit up with a grin when he looked down.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>They stayed out there for hours, until the afternoon rush had dissipated and the two of them were still racing each other across the ice. Peter’s scarf flew behind him and his nose was running and his fingers were numb and he thought this was what it felt like to fly, with the biting wind whipping his face and pulling the tears from his eyes just to freeze them solid on his cheeks.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Around and around the rink, they chased each other, losing all track of the sun’s descent in the chill blue sky.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And then he was down, sprawled hard once more on the scraped-up ice, and Ben right behind him sprawled on top, and they laid there and laughed until the chill seeping up from the ice and straight through their clothes was too much to ignore.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And then Ben lifted Peter to his feet and helped his shaking fingers untie the knots of his laces, and seated on the bench a wave of exhaustion washed over Peter with the last ray of the sun.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And so Ben carried him home, two pairs of skates slung over his arm, Peter’s face snug against his chest even though Peter was too old and too big now.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Warm against Ben’s body, Peter glimpsed the brightly lit corner of a subway, streetlights against a darkening sky, a warm elevator rattling upward, until they stepped through the door and May was there, with blankets and hot chocolate and a soft couch where May and Ben watched some holiday classic as Peter drifted off in their embraces.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Warm. Warm, and loved.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The sun is rising behind the curtains, but still the apartment seems cold and dim in the shadow of those beloved memories.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Those carolers out so early in the morning, doing their best to bring a spark to this shattered world, begin to sing </span>
  <em>
    <span>Joy to the World.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As if joy, and peace, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>hope,</span>
  </em>
  <span> are still something possible to be found by anybody this year.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Peter passes by his old room, not even glancing in. There’s not much left in there anyway. He pushes away the afternoons spent assembling legos with Ned and playing video games on the little console they built, quoting Star Wars and throwing peanuts into each others’ mouths. Fighting with lightsabers and snowballs alike. May popping her head in to hand them a tray of snacks-</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Peter closes his eyes, clenches his jaw, pushes it away. And takes a step only to hesitate outside the door to May’s room.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He hasn’t been in here. Not since That Day.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her queen bed still sits against the opposite wall, covers tucked in neatly like May never would have done.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Another reminder that she’s not about to walk in the door, pulling her scarf off and ready to fall straight into bed after her night shift.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Peter hadn’t been able to sleep for much of the night, tossing and turning and drifting off and then finding himself lying awake again.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Staring endlessly at the ceiling, painted with streetlights and the headlights of cars that passed.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Knowing sleep wasn’t going to magically happen now if it hadn’t for hours of trying, Peter pulled himself out to the living room around 6am, quilt wrapped around his shoulders and a long corner dragging on the floor just behind his heels.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He curled into a corner of the couch and watched the apartment door, the strings of lights on their tree and the electric fireplace beside it throwing a pattern of flickering shadows across his face.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Peter hadn’t cared for Christmas decorations this year, but May had gathered herself somehow and insisted, perhaps in the vain hope that it would bring a sense of normalcy to the season.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>All it did was remind Peter of Christmases past.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He must have sat there for about an hour because May usually got home from her night shift at 7, and the door was opening now, and when May entered she leaned down and slipped off her shoes, and then as she unwound her scarf her eyes met Peter’s and softened in understanding.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She shrugged off her coat and then walked to Peter’s side and sat heavily on the couch, drawing his head to her shoulder and kissing his curls. “Couldn’t sleep?” She murmured.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Peter shook his head.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>A pause, where they both just breathed. Simply existing, if that was all they could do.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You should go to bed,” Peter mumbled.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>May sighed, eyes closing. “So should you,” she replied softly.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And then they both just sat there some more. Watching the crackling fire as the sun’s rays gradually brightened behind the curtains.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Together.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Finally May sighed again and uncurled her legs. Peter made a noise of protest as her warmth left his side, but she took his hand and pulled him to his feet too.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He hiked up the slipping blanket around his shoulders and followed her to her bedroom, where May lifted the covers and pushed him gently into bed.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He curled on his side and a few minutes must have passed because when May climbed carefully under the covers opposite him, she held a small tray with two mugs of hot chocolate and two pieces of toast.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Come on, sit up,” May said softly.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I’m not hungry,” Peter said even as he pulled himself slowly into a more upright position, shoulder against a pile of pillows and legs tucked in.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>A warm mug was placed in his hands, full of half-melted marshmallows just as he liked. He stared at it for a few seconds, or maybe an hour, but it must have been less because when he took a sip the beverage was still hot, just short of burning the tip of his tongue.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The warmth spread through him when he swallowed, and when he looked up at May his lips managed a smile.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She smiled back, just as broken, just as sad, but somehow genuine and loving all the same.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Because they still had each other.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>When they’d finished their meager breakfast, the chocolate-stained mugs and the tray scattered with crumbs were discarded on the bedside table and the two of them curled against each other. Arms under each other’s backs where they would grow pins and needles, but neither of them cared. Peter’s head on May’s shoulder and May’s cheek on his hair.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And together they fell asleep, grief dimming in the comfort of each other’s arms.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Peter?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The boy finds himself slumped against the wall of May’s room, wrists resting across his knees in front of him. For the first time in a long while his cheeks are wet.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Peter? You here, kid?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Peter sniffs and runs a hand under his nose. He closes his eyes. He doesn’t have the energy to call back. Mr. Stark will find him here sooner or later.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s only a few seconds later when Peter feels the man’s soft footsteps enter the room. He walks to Peter’s side and settles on the floor beside him, imitating his position. Sits in silence for a minute or ten, because that’s what Peter needs and somehow Tony always knows.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When Peter finally opens his eyes and looks at the man beside him, Tony looks back. There’s something in his eyes, something like grief and sorrow, sadness and something else that might be love.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Which Peter has never understood, but Tony’s expressed it enough times that Peter believes it to be true.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, Peter,” Tony breathes, which is enough to make Peter look away again as the stinging in his eyes threatens more tears.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He blinks and one drops, making its way down his cheek too quickly for Peter to catch it before Mr. Stark’s fingers brush it away.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Peter swallows thickly, forcing back the rest. “How did you know where to find me?” He asks, and his voice comes out scratchy.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s Christmas, Pete.” Tony’s voice is soft. “Where else would you be?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Peter looks at Tony, and Tony looks back, and Peter’s breath hitches and one of them moves, and then Tony’s arms are open and Peter’s falling into them, his ribcage shuddering with sobs.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They stay like that for a long time, Tony’s arms firm around Peter’s shoulders, holding him together as each wracking breath threatens to split him in two.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Peter doesn’t think he’s cried like this since the first few days after they’d gotten back. At least not in front of anybody.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His shoulders shake and his sobs feel uncontrollable. Every so often he takes a desperate gasping breath, and Tony’s arms clutch him tighter. His fingers are clenched in the back of Tony’s shirt, unable to let go, because if he does, maybe Tony will fade away too.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Just like Dr. Strange and the other Peter and all of those alien people on Titan. Just like May must have, sitting in this very apartment, unaware of the danger until she was nothing but dust. Just like Ned, in the middle of the field trip to MOMA. And MJ. And half of the other kids in his class. Pepper, and half of the Avengers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>All turned into ashes with a mere snap of the fingers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Peter clings tightly. Tony isn’t going anywhere. Tony’s here, just like he always has been. He’s not about to disintegrate into nothing, because that’s over, and the people that are still here are here for good. Tony is staying.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After a long time, Peter’s hitching breaths begin to grow fewer and farther between. His sobs quiet and the tears slow gradually to a stop, leaving his eyes dry and puffy. He’s drained, and thirsty, but unwilling to remove himself from Tony’s embrace.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The tears that are dropping onto Peter’s shoulder from Tony’s cheeks register, and Peter immediately feels guilty. He pulls away just enough to look up at Tony’s red eyes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tony shakes his head. “Don’t apologize, Pete.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Peter swallows and then leans his head back on Tony’s chest. Tony’s fingers run a familiar path through his curls.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I just miss them,” Peter whispers. He feels like he’s breaking, shattering into a million pieces, and he wonders how the rest of the world does it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tony’s lips press to his hair. “I miss them too,” he murmurs.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Peter sniffs, unsure if he should voice the selfish thoughts running through his head. Half the world, half the </span>
  <em>
    <span>universe</span>
  </em>
  <span> is gone, and all he can think about is the ones he lost. He’s been struggling with the same thoughts since the snap, struggling to think outside of himself, struggling to see past the gaping holes torn through his life.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why-” Peter’s voice breaks and he takes a shaky breath to stabilize himself. “Why did it have to be May?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tony’s head turns, his cheek resting on top of Peter’s head.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I mean,” Peter shifts slightly. “I’ve already lost ev-everyone else in my life. I already lost my parents, I already lost Ben.” His voice cracks, going high as he tries to keep from breaking down again. “May was all I had left.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know,” Tony murmurs, rocking him gently, almost a whisper. “I know.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Peter screws up his face and swallows down the next round of tears. After a moment he can breathe again, trying to take in deep breaths to stop his body’s shaking.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“‘M sorry,” he whispers again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tony leans back, moving his hands to Peter’s shoulders and ducking his head to look him in the eye. “Peter, don’t apologize,” he says again. “You need to grieve. It’s good. You’ve been through so much, it’s okay if you feel like you’re breaking. You’re the strongest person I know, and I know that you’ll get through this too, even if it seems impossible right now.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Peter’s eyes drop, but Tony’s finger under his chin prompts him to raise them again. Tony’s eyes are sincere, penetrating straight into Peter’s own eyes, straight into his thoughts, as if Tony can read everything there and still loves him, somehow.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And you don’t have to go it alone,” Tony says. “I’ll be right here with you, every step, every breakdown or sleepless night or panic attack. Every nightmare. Every moment you miss your family, because I get it. And you know what?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Peter sniffs, running a knuckle under his nose.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ll be here for the good moments too. Because you’re my family now, Pete.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There is a weighted pause.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re my kid,” Tony whispers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Peter smiles tremulously. In the cold gray apartment a warmth spreads through his chest, and he feels an urge to tell Tony what it means to him, what every word he’s spoken and even every one he hasn’t means to him. Tony, who in the middle of his own grief has taken the time to lift Peter from his pit. He needs to thank Tony, not just for this morning, but for every day since the snap. For every day before that back to the day they met. For every lab day and stitched-up bullet wound and movie night and medbay wait. For every rescue and for every encouraging word that Peter lives for.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Because Peter was wrong. He hasn’t lost every person that means something to him. He still has someone, someone who loves him and is on his side no matter what.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Peter presses himself back against Tony’s shoulder, and Tony wraps him up in his arms, and all of Peter’s thoughts come out in four simple words:</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I love you, Tony.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tony squeezes him tighter. “I love you too, kid.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Peter’s eyes close, basking in the comfort and the warmth of Tony’s person. He can hear the man’s heart beating, a little off rhythm as it always has been, unique in its pattern. He can feel Tony breathing, his chest pushing gently out and back in, air whooshing quietly through his lungs.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” Peter whispers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey, you’re always there for me, kiddo.” Tony’s fingers draw patterns in Peter’s curls. “I’m just returning the favor.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="ujudUb">
  <p>
    <em>Candles in the window</em><br/>
<em>Shadows painting the ceiling</em><br/>
<em>Gazing at the fire glow</em><br/>
<em>Feeling that gingerbread feeling</em>
  </p>
</div><div class="ujudUb">
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="ujudUb">
  <p>
    <em>Precious moments, special people</em><br/>
<em>Happy faces, I can see</em>
  </p>
</div><div class="ujudUb">
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="ujudUb WRZytc">
  <p>
    <em>Somewhere in my memory</em><br/>
<em>Christmas joys all around me</em><br/>
<em>Living in my memory</em><br/>
<em>All of the music, all of the magic</em><br/>
<em>All of the family, home here with me</em>
  </p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you (yes, you!) for reading!!!! Comments give me warm fuzzies and squeals of excitement!!</p><p>Also I promise chap 3 of We're All Falling is on it's way!! (read: finished but my perfectionism is a stubborn roadblock)</p><p>Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!!! &lt;3&lt;3&lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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